What Man Hath Wrought
by PFCDontKnow
Summary: "Every person has free choice. Free to obey or disobey the Natural Laws. Your choice determines the consequences. Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices." - Alfred A. Montapert
1. Roman Torchwick

**First-and-Only Disclaimer: The animated show RWBY (and all characters, locations, devices, and all other material not previously mentioned therein) belongs to Rooster Teeth. I own a laptop, an overactive imagination, Microsoft Word, and the original characters of this story.**

* * *

Roman Torchwick was in a mood, and that was probably the best way to put it. Sometimes, it felt like the only competent person in his organization outside of himself was a 4'8" mute with sociopathic tendencies (he blamed her mother for that). How else could he explain the consistency with which his lieutenants and their underlings managed to cock up anything more complicated than a drive-by? Thankfully, this particular lieutenant had managed to salvage enough of the operation to make it almost profitable, but that still didn't excuse the fact that he was _in a hospital._

Taking a deep drag of the cigar he shouldn't have been smoking in here, he took a moment to reorder his thoughts before pinning the mostly bandage-shrouded henchman with a frustrated glare. "Do you realize just how _lucky_ you are that the owner of this particular establishment happens to owe me a hell of a lot more than one?"

The henchman, too afraid to verbally respond, simply nodded nervously.

"The _only_ reason I'm not leaving your ass to hang in the wind for the cops to find is because that stupid stunt of yours manage to save most of the shipment and run off those Idiot School washouts Junior likes to employ." The end of Roman's cigar flared for a moment as he inhaled again, a clenched little grin beginning to creep across his face. "So...what have we learned today, class?"

* * *

The criminal kingpin was in a much better mood as he prepared to leave. The shipment had been recovered without him needing to get blood on his suit, the body count had been lower than usual (on his end, anyway. He couldn't care less about Junior's manpower losses), the parties responsible for the cock-up had been suitably reprimanded, and he had a nice bottle of a local red back home he intended to savor. All was right with his world. Or it would be, he realized with a small scowl, if his tiny tagalong had _stayed where he put her_.

It wasn't that he was particularly surprised that she'd wandered off, or even that he was really worried. It was just going to be annoying to find her and drag her away from whatever had caught her eye, and he didn't want to deal with that at the moment. Hell, it's not like it was even going to be that hard to find her; there couldn't be that many midgets with half-pink hair, and he already had a good idea of where to start looking for her.

* * *

Just like he thought, she'd gone to the cafeteria. Questioning a marginally-terrified day worker revealed he'd just missed her take off, apparently leaving a bowl of ice cream behind (neapolitan, of course. How drunk had he _been_ to think that was a good name?), which definitely intrigued him. Whatever had caught her attention, it must've been really interesting to make her ditch her favorite treat.

Following her path, he very shortly came across a very interesting scene. It almost could've been a standoff, if weapons had been out. On one side was an old, gray-haired doctor, with a slightly worried look on his face, flanked by security guards. On the other side was his runaway runt, and a strange looking kid in a…patient gown?

The kid actually looked more like a young adult, really. The fresh, extensive scarring on his face made him look a lot older than he had to be. (Seriously, it looked like someone had taken a weed-whacker to his face. Or got really enthusiastic with a knife.) He was almost bald, the dark stubble on his head only really highlighting the scars that reached up there at the moment.

Now, Neo had her Smile™ on, which should've scared any sensible being, and the looks on Security's face made it apparent it was working. But the way the kid's arms were crossed, and his feet planted confidently in the middle of the hallway, seemed to be what was keeping the doc on his toes.

"I'm not a doctor," the kid spoke in a surprisingly even tone (honestly, he'd expected him to sound like he'd been gargling nails), "but I _am_ well enough aware of my physical limitations and anatomy to know when I'm healed." His eyes – an interesting shade of amber that almost looked like it glowed – narrowed as he delivered his final salvo. "You just want to keep me here to study me like a _lab rat_."

The older man visibly flinched at the accusation. "You have to understand, we've never seen a case as advanced as yours before," he replied in a reedy voice that just confirmed him as a nerd to the ginger gang leader, "By all rights, you shouldn't even be _alive_."

"And yet here I stand."

Roman decided right there that he might just like this kid.

Into the silence immediately afterward he stepped with classic aplomb. Taking one last drag from his cigar, he tossed it into a nearby trash can (he might not hold laws in high regard, but he wasn't a savage), and stepped out between the two, a smile on his lips and a quip on his tongue.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was interrupting a kidnapping."

He always liked watching people as they finally clicked to who he was; the realization, then the fear (or sometimes anger), and finally resignation as they concluded there was nothing they could do about him; it made him feel warm and fuzzy.

The kid, though, didn't react the way the old doctor had. In fact, he didn't seem to react at all. Oh, Roman could still tell the moment it clicked, but there was nothing behind it, just acknowledgement, and then it was just…filed away. If Torchwick hadn't been interested before, he sure was now.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be so concerned about illegal activity," the kid responded, the beginnings of a smirk touching his mouth.

"Only because I didn't approve it," Roman admitted cheerfully, waiting to see what kind of reaction the statement garnered.

The kid just smiled and nodded concedingly, as if to say 'Perfectly understandable'. Deciding he wasn't going to volunteer any more information, Torchwick turned to the doctor.

"What exactly _are_ you doing to earn a comparison to SDC's hiring policies?" Not that he really had claim to the moral high ground on that front, but the chance was just too good to pass up.

The doctor licked his lips nervously before beginning to speak. Torchwick almost regretted asking him, simply because of how annoying his voice was. "He was brought in by an anonymous Huntsman from outside the city. His initial diagnosis was originally the results of extreme proximity to high-pressure deflagration, though there was some speculation as to whether it was a detonation or not at first."

Roman scowled. "Okay...now say that again in Valian."

"They think I was standing next to a low-explosive bomb when it went off in a high-pressure environment," the kid translated, subtle amusement playing across his face, "They thought it might have been high-explosive at first."

"Were you?"

"Not that I was aware of."

The doc cleared his throat with a frown at the kid, who just gave him a smug smirk. "Please, continue."

"During surgery, we discovered an unknown Dust crystal subdermally lodged just below his right shoulder." While his voice was still annoying as all hell, the doctor had taken on that ubiquitous rote tone with which they always delivered medical news. "Investigation revealed severe crystallization of osseous tissue throughout the right arm and shoulder, but epidermal tissue damage around the area of embedment showed he only recently contracted Pulverem Toxemia. It's unlike any other case we've seen before."

"I have the single-most advanced case of Dust poisoning in recorded history," the kid translated, less helpfully this time.

"Yeah, I got that," came the dry remark as Roman tried to figure out what to do with this.

A calculating look filled the kid's eyes as they flitted around the hall, taking in the situation. "If you have time, Mr. Torchwick," he started, "I have a proposition for you."

Roman quirked an eyebrow, amused. No one called him 'Mr. Torchwick' anymore. "I'm listening..."

"My condition is terminal," the kid elaborated with all the equanimity of someone commenting on the weather, "I want a chance to study it with the end goal of finding a cure; failing that, a way to regress its severity. If you provide this, I will provide you with whatever services within reason that you deem necessary until I succeed, or I die."

"Within reason, huh?"

"I draw the line at prostitution." Roman couldn't believe the kid managed that with a straight face.

With an amused snort, he looked at Neo to see what she had to...well, not really say, but still. He started regretting that the minute he met her gaze. She was giving him That Look™, the one she'd gotten when she'd dragged the kitten back from...somewhere, and was begging him to let her keep it. (It was a point in the darn thing's favor that it turned out so good at pest control.)

With an internal sigh, his eyes slid over to the doctor, who looked like he wanted to argue. Staring him straight in the eyes, as if daring the old fart to challenge him, Roman made up his mind.

 _I suppose it's not the worst deal I've ever made…_

"Deal, kid. Welcome to the Jack O'Lanterns."

* * *

 **"That was the end of everything...but it was also a beginning."**

 **Here it is, the long-awaited (hahaha, who am I kidding) beginning of my very own RWBY story! I hope you enjoy it, and the shenanigans that will ensue.**

 **There will be shipping in this fic (because reasons); to that end, I've spun up a thing to keep y'all appraised of where things might be going in that department. If you don't really care for that, feel free to ignore the remainder of this AN.**

 **=][=**

 **Please stand by for brief...**

* * *

Good day, ladies and gentlemen; PFCDontKnow with your Fandom Yards initial brief.

\- The purpose of this brief is ensure that all readers remain up-to-date on the current status of various ships under construction, consideration, or underway.

\- Construction on hull designation _CG-001_ began on January 5th, 2016. All documentation and materials related to Project NATIVE TONGUES has been classified _SECRET/ /REL TO FNDM_.

\- Projects ARKOS, NIGHT'S WATCH and PINK LOTUS have been approved, pending allocation of resources for construction. All documentation and materials related to the aforementioned projects are classified _CONFIDENTIAL/ /REL TO FNDM._

\- Projects BANANA SPLIT, BUMBLEBEE, CHECKMATE, FREEZERBURN, LADYBUG, NOBLESSE OBLIGE, ROSE GARDEN, ROYAL GUARD, S.E.A.L., STAINED GLASS, and WHITE ROSE are under consideration. All documentation and materials related to the aforementioned projects are classified _UNCLASSIFIED/ /FOUO_.

\- Projects FALLING PETALS, LANCASTER, NINJAS OF LOVE, ORANGE, PURRHA, ROSEWICK, SCORCHED EARTH, and YELLOWJACKET have been denied, pending proper disposal of documentation and materials.

\- Further project submissions for consideration are being accepted at this time.

Pending any questions, that is all I have.


	2. Neopolitan

Neo thought it was hilarious that Roman was having problems figuring out just where the new guy fit in the Jack O'Lanterns' hierarchy. As one of the technically lower-ranked mooks, he did what he was told, but it was with a subtle undercurrent of antipathy towards the Less-Expendable Ones that they hadn't seemed to have noticed. He was smart enough (despite an apparent lack of an education; like she had any room to talk) that he'd be wasted on grunt work, and skilled enough (with a gun, at least) that "desk work" would likewise be a waste.

Oh! And his name was Aiden. She made a point to remember the names of the interesting ones.

And "Aiden Umber" was most certainly an interesting one. For one, he didn't exist; at least not in the legal sense. She looked in every archive she had access to, and then a few she (technically) didn't. It was as if he'd just appeared out of thin air at the hospital. Of course, a few Lien in the right hands had "located" his "misplaced" records, so technically he _did_ legally exist, but it wasn't _real_. That didn't count.

Then there was the obvious bait of how it seemed like everything he said was never everything he knew. He never lied, but he never fully disclosed anything either. It drove the Less-Expendable Ones _mad_ , and mildly annoyed her dad, neither of which she really minded. If anything, it impressed her.

And his eyes were _shiny_. She'd already made sure she got a Copy of them. It had taken a surprising amount of effort.

Roman had tried to preemptively forbid her from stalking him now that she'd cleared him of being a plant; but since she found him, it only made sense that she kept an eye on him. It wasn't even really stalking. He knew she was there and didn't say anything, so it was okay.

It was almost like he knew what she could do, and was looking for her. And he was no slouch at the whole disappearing thing himself, which _really_ impressed her. If someone with that kind of scarring on their face could vanish in plain sight, they had to be good.

She most certainly had _not_ lost track of him and let him get behind her on five separate occasions; no could prove it!

It turned into a fairly complex game of Tag. She tried to get close enough to touch him without being spotted (if she wasn't specifically needed for a job), and he did the same, except he had to disappear first. (No, she didn't think it unfair that Aiden started off at a disadvantage.) The current score was twelve to eight, her favor. (Those previous five never happened, so they didn't count.)

Which of course meant the one day she decided not to play and to annoy her dad's "business partners" during their big meeting was the day he got into a fight.

Roman had taken one look at her as she trailed him to the pub ( _Roman's Pub*_. Not the most imaginative of names, but still better than Junior's stupid _The Club_. Honestly, did he even try?) and set her on door duty so she wouldn't bug his Not-Really-Important-People, the spoilsport. Didn't stop her from creeping out their bodyguards with her murder-face, though that was nowhere near as satisfying.

So when a bloodied man in a white shirt and orange tie stumbled up to the door looking like he was about to collapse of exhaustion, Neo gave the Expendable One a very different murder-face. As in, _I will fucking murder you, what the hell are you doing?_ She had to at least _act_ like she cared, after all.

The Expendable One paled even further, holding out a torn and folded piece of paper, as if in offering to an angry goddess (as was only proper). "Fi-fight at the li-light f-factory," he gasped, collapsing against the alley wall breathlessly. Flicking a glance up at the other guard-ing Expendable Ones that told them to stay like the good doggies they were, she walked into the kitchen, scanning the note as she made her way to the back table where Roman held court.

 _Developing situation. N_ _eed reinforcements._

 _S – squad-size element_

 _A – Engaged close-range firefight, attempting close to melee_

 _L – LLL factory_

 _U – Jade Grizzlies_

 _T – First shots 1347 local_

 _E – Small arms and blades, one warhammer_

Well, that was definitely Aiden's handwriting. Incredibly, incredibly sloppy, but still his handwriting. She'd snooped on the frankly ridiculous amount of notes he took regarding Dust (and the other half-dozen random things he was apparently studying) often enough she just needed to see what his signature _actually_ looked like so she could confirm if her forged one was a match, at this point.

While she'd been confirming that, another part was piecing out how to get Roman's attention in a suitably noticeable way. The normal way of just walking up, tapping him on the shoulder and handing him the note was straightforward, easy, and also the polite and expected way for someone to behave.

Which of course meant she approached the table, immediately disregarded the presence of every other person there, climbed into his lap like the child she somewhat resembled and held the paper in front of his face between her first two fingers.

The eloquently frustrated look on his face promised that they were going to have a very _long_ talk after this as he plucked the note from her hands. She was incoherent with terror at the thought; no, really.

His eyes rapidly scanned the torn sheet of paper before Roman sighed explosively. "Be a good girl and go help him clean up, sweetie," he said with a smile, lifting her off his lap and patting her on the head, "Daddy has other business to take care of first."

With an overly dramatic pout, she made her way out the front door, drawing curious glances from all over the pub and another explosive sigh from Roman. Once she was out of sight, she teleported to the old factory, grinning at the opportunity to bash some skulls in.

The first thing she noticed was the noise. It wasn't as loud as some of the gang fights she'd been in, but it was definitely up there. Near-constant gunfire, crude taunts and curses that had the F-word flying around faster than the bullets...oh, and dead bodies. She saw some of those, too.

There were two bodies in familiar white-and-orange outfits right off the bat, closest to the door. Another dead thug in a jade green sweater lay there, too, with an SMG nearby. Clean shots; two to the chest, one to the head. Not what she had been expecting. Another one with a jade athletic jacket and similarly-colored sword was lying in a pool of blood not far off, his body absolutely littered with bullets. That, she had been expecting. The Expendable Ones always had itchy trigger fingers.

Moving deeper into the factory, she ran across another pair of dead Jack O'Lanterns and a dead Grizzly. Racing around the corner, she caught a glimpse of wounded-but-not-dead Expendable Ones before the _ratatatat_ of automatic fire had her flaring her parasol to deflect the rounds. Almost as it started, the firing stopped as someone loudly berated the idiot.

"Are you color-blind, boot?! Fight's that way!"

Neo watched over her parasol as Aiden forcibly redirected the Expendable One's SMG fire back to the other side of the room, where she could just see bits of jade popping up out of cover behind discarded boxes and old machinery to fire back. With no more preamble than a wink at him, she vaulted over the conveyer belt the Jack O'Lanterns were using for cover, dodging most of the fire directed her way, and letting her Aura absorb what she couldn't. She casually noted the three bodies lying in between the two lines, the green-bladed weapons near them giving away what they'd been trying to do.

With a back flip over some kind of funny-looking machine, she landed heels first into the face of one of the thugs, who fell back with a pained roar. She hazarded a guess that she'd squished one of his eyes, judging by the fact he was still screaming, and that she'd heard something make a squelch-y noise when she pushed off his face into another back flip, using the hooked end of her parasol to pull a second gangster off-balance and in front of her as a bullet sponge for the third jade-garbed gangster nearby.

Shoving the body towards the gunman, she bent backward under a sword swing from the side, just out of the corner of her eye. As the blade passed over her, she kicked her legs up and around the neck, using her momentum and Aura to help pull herself up and the gangster's head to the side farther and faster than his neck should go with a loud, satisfying _snap_. Flaring her parasol in the face of the fifth hoodlum, she used the one she was sitting on as a springboard to launch herself towards the last one with a gun, drawing the sword hidden in the parasol tube, skewering him through the soft underside of his chin as she rose from her landing, the crooked handle spinning over her hand as she yanked the blade out and resheathed it, punching it out the top long enough to silence the screams of the first gangster with a stab through his other eye into his brain.

Thirteen seconds, give or take.

Opening her parasol once more, she rested it over one shoulder, beckoning coyly for the last gang member to come closer. He made it three steps away from her before automatic and pistol fire tore him apart.

Satisfied that everything was dead, Neo skipped back to where the Expendable Ones were all slumped over, panting with exhaustion. The smile turned into a confused frown as she noticed that Aiden was gone. The corpse of what she recognized as a Less-Expendable One was slumped against the wall as well, but she didn't care about that, he'd been a particularly annoying one; she'd been planning a rather vicious 'accident' for him when she got especially bored.

She was about to rap one of the two remaining Expendable Ones over the head to figure out where Aiden went when gunfire rang out further in the factory. _Pop, pop, pop_ , then a cavalcade of automatic fire that nearly buried another pair of pistol shots. Silence descended on the hallway for a moment before everything seemed to happen at once. A terrific wooden _crunch_ was immediately followed by a burst of automatic fire that was cut off by a trio of pistol reports, which was almost immediately followed by a wet _snap_ like bone breaking (a sound she was very familiar with) and a pained roar as they burst into the room to watch Aiden empty his pistol into the body of a giant hammer-wielding bull-horned Faunus with an downright feral snarl etched across his face. Across the room, three bodies, all with SMGs, lay on the ground, two of them with the same three-shot pattern she'd noticed earlier. The third only had the two shots to the chest.

Sitting on the floor with his left leg straightened out in front of him, the scarred young man turned to the closer of the two Expendable Ones, his face back in its usual blank state, save for the bloodthirsty rage blazing in his eyes. (Neo could almost swear his eyes were _actually_ glowing with hate.) She couldn't fault him for it, his wounds looked painful as hell. His left knee looked like a bullet had just about blown it out, and that was definitely a bit of bone sticking out of his thigh where the bull Faunus had managed to land a blow.

"You." Even still, his voice was as controlled as ever, despite how bad his leg had to be screaming at him. "Give me your weapon."

The Expendable One looked confused. "Th' fuck you want with _–_ "

"Give. Me. Your. Weapon."

Still lost, the Expendable One did as he was told, and both of the mooks jumped when Aiden chambered a round and began spraying them into the slumped form of the dead gangster. When the magazine ran dry, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Factory secured," he informed the widely grinning mute, the fire in his eyes banked, "Thank you for your assistance, Neopolitan."

With a gracious nod, the midget turned to text Roman that the situation had been handled when she heard Aiden snap his fingers. "You. Pick me up. The one in the doorway has something I want, and I'm in no position to move under my own power."

"No, I'm not your servant; fuck you."

With a glare at the offending Expendable One, Neo turned back around and whacked him over the head with her umbrella. Said underling rubbed the back of his head and flinched at her gaze, moving to sling Aiden's arm over his shoulder and pick up the casualty.

Message now sent, the little lieutenant watched as Aiden rooted through the pockets of one of the dead gangsters for a moment before removing a tarnished pocketwatch and opening it.

"A watch?" the Expendable One scoffed, "You had me fucking drag you over here…so you could grab a fucking _watch_."

"A broken one, at that," Aiden agreed in a disappointed tone, "A pity…I've always wanted a pocket watch. I suppose I'll have to repair it."

Was now a good time for it? Meh, she didn't care; she was going to do it anyway.

Her mind made up, Neo walked over to Aiden and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned to look up at her – for once, she was taller than him – she held her hand against her forehead in the shape of an 'L'. Thirteen-eight, her favor. Aiden just rolled his eyes as she grinned. This game was _fun_.

* * *

 ***Seriously, there's a place not five minutes walk away from the barracks called "Roman's Pub". Never been there, but I couldn't pass up the chance.**

 **=][=**

 **Stand by for brief.**

* * *

Good day, ladies and gentlemen; PFCDontKnow with your Fandom Yards updated brief.

\- There are no new project approvals at this time.

\- There are no new projects under consideration at this time.

\- Projects CHECKMATE, FREEZERBURN, and LADYBUG have been denied, pending proper disposal of documentation and materials.

\- All documentation and materials related to projects FALLING PETALS, LANCASTER, NINJAS OF LOVE, ORANGE, PURRHA, ROSEWICK, SCORCHED EARTH, and YELLOWJACKET has been properly disposed of.

\- Further project submissions for consideration are being accepted at this time.

Pending any questions, that is all I have.


	3. Aiden Umber

**Whoo! RWBY's back! Volume 4 Hype! Here's a new chapter to celebrate. (Oh god please don't hurt me i'm so sorry this took so long...)**

 **See Chapter 1 for disclaimer.**

* * *

Aiden inhaled deeply as he stretched, ignoring the lingering discomfort in his chest from the action, the persistent tingle at the top of his throat that heralded the beginnings of a cough. Based on previous experience, that gave him approximately another three days before he could hold it back no longer. His mouth twitched downward in the barest hint of a scowl. The intervals were getting shorter - thirteen days total reprieve compared to twenty-one, itself down from thirty-four. The coughing fits never failed to leave him drained and incapable of accomplishing anything productive in their aftermath.

It frustrated him to no end.

He was running out of time, and he was no closer to finding an effective treatment (much less a cure) than when he began. Every resource he could get a hand on (digital or physical, legal or not), every test he could think to run, every so-called "expert" he could cajole into sharing their knowledge – they all told him much about its effects. How to identify types of Dust and signs of use by touch or smell or sight. How a crystal's yield could be influenced by its purity, its size, how finely it was ground.

How it corroded the body, destroyed it, burned it up – propagation by conversion.

And yet not a single one of them could tell him _how_ Dust worked. _How_ it summoned fire and ice and lightning from a mineral medium. The apathetic responses of "it's Dust; it just does" galled him.

He'd started his search with medical records. Cases of Pulverem Toxemia dating back to before the Great War, apocryphal tales of divine retribution from this world's Renaissance, studies of the affliction in their Enlightenment-equivalent essays and journals, even transcribed oral stories and legends from the earliest days of mankind's history with Nature's Wrath.

He found that the disease was always fatal. No attempted treatment had any success. He also learned that contracting it seemed an arbitrary quirk of the universe, which he assumed meant the required conditions were likely genetic. The exponential decline in reported cases through time seemed to support it. Modern science declared eventually, PT would simply disappear as the immunity finished propagating itself through Remnant. Not (theoretically) incorrect, and an unsurprising answer given the more pressing issue of the Grimm. Aiden still found it to be a lazy excuse.

No research into the infection process had been done. Every record of Dust poisoning had come from a reporting of the case after contraction. He started with rats, easily enough located in the ramshackle slums and dirty alleys. Then other rodents; squirrels, mice, chipmunks. Live and dead, he introduced slivers of Dust crystal into their systems, and observed. Feral cats and dogs were next for tests requiring the animal be living, the remainder stolen from pet mortuaries. Pigs, while much more similar to humans than his other test subjects, were much harder to acquire discreetly. He eventually managed to obtain two – one for live tests, the other as a cadaver. His apartment wasn't big enough for his experiments; he relocated them to a condemned building the locals claimed was haunted.

(Idle curiosity engaged him to attempt to record any paranormal evidence. So far, the only thing that appeared to be haunting the premises was himself.)

He introduced aerosolized Dust into their enclosures, he mixed particulate into their food, he directly inserted shards of various sizes under their skin – all with no noticeable results. There was no colonization of either living or dead creatures by the various types of Dust.

Two steps forward, one step back. The pigs were eaten. He incinerated the rest.

If animals couldn't contract Pulverem Toxemia, as his admittedly small subject pool seemed to indicate, then that meant the disease was a markedly human one. Which made his next logical battery of tests…

Questionable. That was a good word for it. A neutral word. Social strictures (and personal values) balked at the thought, even as those self-same strictures praised and logic pointed out the outcomes of the sacrifice of the few for the benefit of the many.

He pushed away from the old desk, using his grip on its edge as an aid to regain his feet. A moral quandary for another time. Preferably one that didn't find him in a haphazardly repaired basement. He had other work. Roman had been heard to complain loudly and at length about how often the lesser gangs seemed to be nibbling at the edges of his operations, with varying levels of success. Aiden felt a phantom twinge in his knee recalling one particularly vicious 'nibble' at the old light factory a few months before.

The engagement had begun without warning. He'd done as much as possible to keep that idiot underboss from getting all of them killed, and had barely succeeded. His personal engagement at the end had fared marginally better. All four targets eliminated, gunshot wound sustained and interrupting failure-to-stop drill, blunt-force trauma sustained as a result of reduced reflexes resulting from the GSW.

He snorted as he grabbed the cane leaning in the corner where the wall met the desk. _'Blunt-force trauma'_. That was an understatement. He'd spent over an hour in the hospital's osseous regenerator (an absolutely _fascinating_ piece of technology he had a near-zero chance of ever getting his hands on) just to get his leg in good enough condition to even think about repairing the damage to his blown-out knee – a nearly unprecedented length of time, judging by the reactions of the staff when they thought he wasn't paying attention.

A less self-controlled man might have winced when a much-less-phantom pain shot up his leg as he turned to the stairwell leading back up to the rest of the building. Aiden refused to admit to any such weakness, even in the privacy of his "laboratory". That didn't mean he would ignore his body's signals, however; he leaned more heavily on his good leg and the cane for several moments, giving his knee a reprieve before making his way up and out of the condemned structure.

It was an annoyance, the cane. His pride objected to displaying even that much weakness, though it was a much more palatable alternative to _crutches_. The leg brace, it protested, was bad enough. Even so, they served a purpose for the moment, and Aiden refused to be ruled by pride any more than he would be by pain. While the surgery on his knee had been successful, his leg was still not fully healed. Until it could bear weight, he would use the cane. Until it regained its strength, he would use the brace.

* * *

A cab ride found him before the entrance of Roman's Pub, and a check of his watch (another souvenir of the factory fight, if a much more pleasant one) put the time at 1113. Good; he wasn't fond of being late.

There were a handful of customers, half a dozen at the most, when he entered the pub. The man in the two-piece suit and orange tie didn't count; he wasn't really here to waste his lunch hour. Aiden kept the surge of bitter annoyance off his face when the patrons as one turned to see who entered, and immediately after began blatantly staring at his braced leg.

If this was going to continue, he was going to need a longer coat.

He'd discovered not long ago that people here seemed to find direct eye contact with him disturbing, a fact he took full advantage of. After their attentions had left him (with no small amount of nervous shuffling), he approached a large table set towards the back, where Vale's preeminent criminal kingpin was eating lunch. He had to admit, he was curious to see what eventually drove Roman to hire from Hei Xiong, dangerous as it may mean for his own employment prospects.

Save to order a drink, Aiden said nothing as he waited for the only superior he didn't hold in disdain. Currently, anyway; they were both young yet.

"You're early," Roman stated as he reached for his glass.

He debated taking the unspoken question at face value before deciding against it. It wouldn't do to overly antagonize his benefactor at this juncture, amusing as the thought was. "It was often impressed on me that he who is 'on time' is late."

"Sounds like your old bosses were pretty militant about their time-keeping."

The minor emphasis Torchwick put on 'militant' amused Aiden, though he gave no outward indication of it. It was a telling word choice. "Indeed."

The conversation halted as a waitress delivered his drink (coffee, despite the hour) resuming only when she'd moved out of earshot.

Roman set his own drink back down as he moved on to the meeting's actual purpose. "What have you found?"

Details were incriminating. Regardless of the bowler-wearing bandit baron's controlling interest in the pub's operation, they were best avoided in public discourse as much as possible. "I've narrowed it down to a handful of sources. The largest body of evidence seems to point to an actor in Vacuo–"

"Vacuo? Who?" Roman's questioning cut him off. Aiden registered, acknowledged, and dismissed as puerile the resulting flash of annoyance as he took a drink. His employer obviously wanted a target for his ire, badly, if this was how he was reacting to the _idea_ that a result was in reach.

Their conversation was interrupted again before it could even resume as another young lady approached the table. A brief glance confirmed the pink hair as belonging to Neopolitan as she seated herself in the chair next to Roman, her two-toned eyes all but daring him to point out how she just barely came up to the table top.

He was not an idiot, nor did he have a death wish. (Yet.) Regardless, it was not what he was here to discuss. "Every issue we've experienced had an origin in a shared holding owned by the Lumiere Corporation."

Roman's eyes narrowed, now that he had a name, even if it was a rather all-encompassing one. "You think they're behind it?"

What he thought was irrelevant in the face of the evidence. "Are you asking for my opinion?"

Roman and his progeny (and hadn't _that_ been remarkable to discover) held an entire conversation in what amounted to an eyeblink. "Why, it seems I am," the ginger gangster half-gasped in mock surprise as he turned back to Aiden.

He didn't see how his opinion was relevant, even as justification for what needed to be done next to further his analysis. Nonetheless, he'd been asked for it, and he would give it. "I do not. However, I have no proof to substantiate what amounts to, using common parlance, 'a gut feeling'."

Aiden took a sip as another silent conversation passed between the two at the other end of the table, the kind only long exposure to the other's thought patterns could produce. He wondered if he would ever have reached that point with his father if–

 _ **HE WAS NOT THINKING ABOUT THIS.**_

Aiden forcibly relaxed himself as Roman met his eyes again. Neither Torchwick nor Neo noticed as the iron clench of his jaw lingered for another few seconds, though he took another sip of his coffee to further hide the reaction.

"Alright," Roman decided, taking another sip of his drink, "I know a few guys over there. You and Neo can find out what they know."

Aiden restrained his surprise at the inclusion to simply raising his eyebrows. Before, his troubleshooting had been purely analytical; other actors carrying out the wet work when it was required (some more aptly than others). This was unexpected, but nothing he couldn't adapt to.

The Jack O'Lanterns' leader just smirked. "I'll call you when everything's arranged for the trip."

Aiden knew a dismissal when he heard one. Finishing off the last of his coffee, he began reaching for the lien to pay for it when Roman held up a hand. A silent indication that he was covering it. Interesting.

With a mental shrug, he stood, before bowing his head slightly towards his benefactor. "Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Torchwick."

He saw Roman's returning nod out of the corner of his eye as he proceeded to the door. Even once they were out of his line of sight, he knew both Roman and Neopolitan were watching him until the cab he'd hailed had left their sight.

Aiden speculated he was being tested. For what, exactly, he had yet to determine. Judging by the rather smug look he'd seen on Neopolitan's face, she had something to do with it. Unbidden, an old friend's favorite phrase surfaced from the back of his mind and he couldn't bring himself to immediately shove it away. Besides, it was remarkably apt.

 _How troublesome._

* * *

 **Questions? Comments? Bitches, moans, complaints? Leave a review!**

 **PFCDontKnow, Out.**


	4. Eira Rees

**I am really, really, so very sorry for how long it's taken me to write this. Honestly, I just needed to sit my ass down and write it, I have absolutely no excuses for procrastinating. I'd die for the shame of leaving this so long if it weren't for the fact that then this would really never get done.**

 **In other news, I need to cut down on how much I play Shogun 2.**

* * *

Rees was finally starting to get used to the cold. That was probably her first hint right there, that she'd started referring to this place as merely 'cold'. Compared to…her old home, Mantle was fucking _freezing_. The hole in the wall of her "apartment" was probably contributing to that, she didn't doubt. Damn fucking landlord wouldn't do shit to fix any of the myriad problems with the building so he could gouge more cash – 'lien', whatever – out of the tenants for "heating expenses" and other bullshit. Dick. Just because most of them were _kemonomimi_ ( _fond nostalgia made bittersweet; "That's not a real word, Matt."_ ) doesn't mean he should let the building fall down around their ears.

She was finding that her opinion was in a very tiny minority.

"Sir, someone put it in the wrong spot, I was just–"

"Don't try to lie to me; I know you Faunus! You were going to steal it!" The manager roared, "Get out of here! Be thankful I'm not calling the MPs!"

 _Just ignore it,_ she told herself, taking the next box from the back of the truck, _You need this job today._ Experience with close-order drill made it easy to pretend like nothing was happening as the auburn-haired ani-man shrugged on a recycled coat and slunk off.

She still felt entirely justified walking away from the loading dock at the end of the day with her day's pay in lien stuffed in one pocket of her secondhand parka, and one of the tech-things headed for the entertainment section of the superstore in the other. She could feel guilty about shoplifting later.

The evening chill made the walk back seem much longer than it actually was before she turned off into an alley just before the entrance to her building and started climbing the rusting fire escape, wishing she had thicker gloves (again). The entrance worked perfectly fine, but the idiot actually _liked_ freezing his ass off on the roof when he'd had a bad day like today. This way, she wouldn't get warm(er) going through the building, then back out into the cold to check on him, and _then_ back inside to her place. She would insist that getting to avoid the landlord this way was just a happy side-effect from now 'til Judgment Day.

She knew he'd already heard her coming up behind him, so she wasn't surprised when he caught the thingy with barely a look over his shoulder when she lobbed it at him with a "Think fast."

The large-cat Faunus (she forgot the exact species) snorted as he got a good look at the device in his hands. "I get accused of attempted theft, so you go and shoplift," he remarked, his voice drier than the sands around Twenty-Nine Palms, "Yeah, you really showed that guy."

"Hey, might as well live down to the stereotype, right?" She fired back, dropping down next to him, very carefully not looking at how their feet dangled over open air six stories up. "Seriously, though; you know somebody who'll sell that, right?"

He ran a hand through long, auburn hair (that she told him to get cut a month ago, goddammit) with a sigh. "You don't need to worry about me, Eira," he stated acidly, "I'm not going to go belly-up just because one job fell through."

He still stuffed the gizmo in his coat pocket, because he wasn't a retard, but the vehemence in his reply caught her off-guard. _Where the fuck was this coming from?_ she wondered with a frown. "This isn't just ' _one job,_ ' Bole; that's _three times_ this month. A little petty crime is worth my peace of mind."

He snarled at her; _actually snarled_ at her. "Oh, how _valiant_ of you. What great _sacrifices_ you make in the name of those less fortunate. Your _charity_ knows no bounds."

She scowled. That's not what she meant, and he knew it. " _Fine._ If you don't want my 'charity', then have those super-secret ' _friends'_ you won't tell anyone about bail you out next time the landlord comes collecting his 'overdue fees'."

 _Damn it, Rees, this is not how you de-escalate a situation._

She could practically hear him grinding his teeth to keep from shouting. "Look, Eira, I get that you're from pretty far out of town–"

 _You have_ no _idea_ _, buddy._

"–but you wouldn't understand; you're a human."

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I understand enough to recognize a bunch of terrorist groupies when I see them." Fuck. She'd done it now. She said the 'T'-word.

The look on Bole's face as he growled made her think he was genuinely going to hit her; and at this range, he couldn't miss. "I don't know what else I expected," he eventually bit out, "from someone still young enough to believe in fairy tales."

 _Get up._ The thought crossed through her head even as she bristled, her jaw clenched and fists curled tight. It sounded like Matthew. _Get up and walk away **now** , Eira, before you do something you'll regret._

She didn't want to, for more than just the crack at her age. She wanted to scream at Bole, curse him out, kick him, hit him, _punish_ him for reminding her of all the loss those missing five years represented. Half a year later, the pain hadn't dulled in the slightest – she'd just gotten better at ignoring it.

She ignored it again, managing to make it back to her rundown, drafty, piece-of-shit apartment before breaking down and screaming into a pillow. She absolutely did _not_ cry. Cliché an action as it was, she didn't want the whole building to know she was having a bad day. The metal of her old dog tags chilled her sternum as she lay facedown.

 _How did you do it, Matt?_ she asked the small velvet box she'd set on the bedside table, _How did you always know exactly what to say?_

Dead men don't answer questions. It never seemed to stop her from asking them.

* * *

When he didn't answer his door the next day, she slid a note under it apologizing for the way she'd acted. (But not, she felt it important to remember, anything she'd said.) A couple uneventful days passed, and no one in the building seemed to have heard from Bole since their fight when she asked. Nobody was too concerned – this wasn't the first time, and he always came back perfectly fine.

The knock on her door was unexpected, and she prayed it wasn't Mrs. Pastel. Old bat was utterly convinced there was something more between her and Bole, and seemingly made it a goal every week to chew at least one of them out for 'living in sin'.

She was a bit relieved when it turned out to be just the aforementioned big-cat Faunus. "Hey."

"Hey." He didn't say anything else for a long moment, but he seemed a little embarrassed and a lot nervous. "Someone from AI said they're looking for wait staff for some fancy shindig going on tonight, if you're interested."

She took the unspoken apology for what it was, and made sure – like always – to slip Matthew's ring box into her coat before she left.

* * *

Aurum Industries was probably the biggest name in Mantle after the Schnee Dust Company; they had so many derivatives and subsidiary companies and other business-sounding shit that it was almost easier to list what they _didn't_ have a hand in somewhere. And at least among the people she regularly interacted with, AI was seen in a much more favorable light. To Eira's total lack of surprise, the heads of those companies (and of the families they took their names from) seemed to be the main reason for that.

Jacques Schnee...Jacques Schnee was a dick. Plain and simple. Granted, nothing she could find on him in print stated as such – 'freedom of the press' came with a really big asterisk around here – but a lot of what she did find somehow managed to convey an undercurrent of begrudging distaste for the man on a personal level. "He who dies with the most toys wins" seemed to be his MO, as far as Eira could tell, and he was stomping on anyone he needed to to win. Mostly Faunus.

Gustavus Aurum, on the other hand, looked like a fucking saint compared to the Schnee patriarch. Werdin would've called him a "Royal Who Actually Did Something", because he was a nerd who spent too much time looking up random shit on the Internet when he was supposed to be working. Eira really didn't know if the Aurums had been part of the pre-war nobility like most of Mantle claimed (and she really didn't care), but they certainly acted like it, actually making an effort to ensure everyone they and their subordinates dealt with in any sort of capacity was treated equally and fairly (as far as she could tell).

Fucking fairy-tale nobles and stereotypical big-money boogeymen. This was her fucking life now. The awareness of this was just as exasperating now as it had been the first fifty fucking times.

" _Bole! Was zum Teufel machst du? Sie ist menschlich!_ "

The unknown voice and foreign language had Eira pulling herself out of her internal grousing to see that they'd joined about a half-dozen Faunus standing outside a really fancy building. She didn't speak a word of German – 'Atlesian', 'Mantelian', she'd long since run out of fucks to give – but she didn't need it to see they weren't exactly thrilled with her presence. She was still wishing she'd paid a bit more attention when Werdin had started jabbering away in it, though.

" _Es ist alles gut, Jungs. Sie ist cool._ "

It sounded as angry as ever. She put on what she hoped was a friendly smile and gave a small wave. This whole song and dance wasn't anything new to her, sadly, though usually it was in English and she could answer for herself. It seemed to work, though. They didn't get all chummy, but most of the Faunus visibly relaxed and Bole glared the other two into submission.

Clearing her throat to break the silence before it got awkward, she addressed the sinking feeling in her stomach as she took in the easily-concealable nature of her temporary companions' various Faunus traits. "Judging by the way everyone looks, SDC's gonna be at this thing, aren't they?" And wow, the number of ways she could mean that was almost Umber-levels of vague. She wasn't sure if she should be proud or disturbed.

A guy who didn't look too much older than her with dark grey rabbit ears that flopped down behind his shoulders and matching hair nodded genially. "Seems so. Rumor is, Jacques Schnee himself is putting in an appearance."

She missed the triumphant little grin that Bole flashed one of the others as she scowled. "Damn it, I already met my 'bigot' quota for the month."

The lop-eared Faunus snickered. "Don't worry; I doubt he'll let any of us close enough to even qualify as in the same room."

The real funny part was he thought she was joking. She genuinely didn't know how well her bearing would hold up if the Schnee CEO was as bad as she'd heard him to be.

Any further ice-breaking was cut off by a sharply-dressed older man ushering them inside and then separating them by gender to change into provided uniforms of dark golden-yellow and black. The array of available sizes and fits was impressive, and she found herself (quietly) agreeing with an almost literally doe-eyed lady expressing her desire to keep them. They were very nice clothes.

There was just one problem: she didn't have anywhere to put Matthew's ring box. It either wouldn't fit or it'd draw too much attention. She couldn't – _wouldn't_ – leave it in here with her other clothes. She never had before, she wasn't about to start now.

 _You could always just take the ring out._ Rees didn't even try to hid the grimace as the obvious solution crossed her mind. One hand fiddled with her dog tags, the ring box sitting innocently in her other as she put off taking her own mental advice. She'd had it for over half a year now, but had never quite managed to make herself open it. It felt...too final.

" _D'_ _you think I should keep it?_ "

 _"The choice is entirely yours what you do with it."_

 _"That doesn't tell me what you think, Umber."_

 _"This is something indescribably personal, Rees. I'd prefer you make your decision untainted by my opinion."_

She felt her jaw clench as the old conversation echoed through her mind, and opened the box before she could change her mind, barely glancing at the ring itself as she fished it out and strung it on the chain with her dog tags.

"Baby steps, Rees," she whispered to herself as she finished getting dressed, the dog tags – and ring – tucked back under her shirt, "Baby steps."

* * *

 **Again, my deepest apologies. We're not done in Mantle yet, however, so (God willing) the next chapter will come out before the beginning of the next Age... :P**

 **PFCDontKnow, Out.**


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